


Crossroads

by Emanium



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8572558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emanium/pseuds/Emanium
Summary: In an attempt to wipe Batman from existence, the Time Trapper alters the past, giving a young Bruce Wayne the chance to shoot Joe Chill for revenge. To reverse this, Dick follows the Time Trapper back in time, to prevent Bruce from committing the crime that would define the rest of his life.





	1. Of Hot-headed Criminals and Passer-by Victims

Dick remembered every time he smacked Bruce's face with an escrima stick.

The first time, Bruce was thirty, and the most unfit single dad in Gotham to deal with teenage rebellion. Dick struck first, Bruce struck back. Before long, the living room was in shambles. Then Alfred appeared and reprimanded them for a full hour.

The second time, Bruce was thirty-two. Dick was turning into the epitome of self-assurance, which Bruce perceived as disobedience. In the cave, discipline was delivered in the form of punches and kicks, so Dick grabbed his stick and struck it across Bruce's face. The man had to stay off the tabloids for three weeks.

The third time, Bruce was thirty-five. Robin was fired.

But the fourth time- Dick swung his arm across, his weapon striking his mentor squarely in the face. He almost fractured his nose. The fourth time, Bruce was eight.

The hit knocked the boy off his feet. He scrambled up, gingerly regaining a sense of orientation, wiping blood off his nose with his sleeve. Adrenaline kicked in again. He aimed his gun at the intruder.

Dick leaped away, landing on a first floor balcony, using the shadows to his best advantage. His uniform melted into the dark alley, and he could see Bruce watching, waiting. Cautious, but not pursuing him. Half his attention was still on Chill, who was lying limp, soaked in a puddle at the boy's feet.

Lightning struck again, illuminating the pair: the defenseless murderer and the armed soon-to-be criminal. The boy gulped and pressed his pistol against Chill's temple. His resolve was burning out.

"Don't do it." Dick hopped off the balcony, approaching carefully. He recognized the fierceness in Bruce eyes- hot, boiling anger. His emotions were driving him now, pushing him to cross the line, to pull the trigger.

Yet he hesitated, and spoke. "My parents are dead because of him." Bruce grit out, as he uncocked the safety catch. "The court didn't give them justice, but I can."

His voice was calm, but his heart was thumping hard, his hand trembling. Dick could see that the boy's courage was short-lived. He took the chance. "You're talking of vengeance, not justice," he reminded Bruce. When he confronted Zucco, it was Bruce who had kept him on the right path. "Shoot him, and you're no better than him."

The boy's resolve wavered. He lowered his gun a fraction. Dick heaved a small sigh of relief. Then another thunder struck, Chill scrambled up and started running. Bruce's body reacted faster than his mind.

"No!"

Dick dashed in front of the bullet, shielding Chill from the shot. He stumbled back when the bullet ripped through his abdomen. Pain registered in his mind. He looked down, disbelievingly, and pressed a hand to his wound. For a moment, there was no blood. Then something thick and sticky started trickling down his palm. He stumbled another two steps and fell to his knees.

The boy blanched at the scene. There was a battle in his eyes. Part of him wanted to run and disappear, let the cops find Dick's cold body when dawn broke. But it was the other part of him- the responsible, caring part of him- that won out. Bruce scrambled to Dick's side. He pulled out his phone.

"Don't," Dick reached out and folded his hand over Bruce's phone.

"I'm calling an ambulance." Bruce insisted.

"No."

"You're going to bleed out." Panic laced his voice. He pulled away.

"Call Alfred," Dick managed weakly, letting go of Bruce's hand. "No one else."

In the heat of the moment, Dick's odd knowledge hadn't yet sparked Bruce's suspicion. "But-"

"Do it."

Dick saw the click happen- the boy realized his hesitation was going to kill the man. He dialed the right number, spoke quickly and harshly into the phone. Then he pocketed it and went back to staring at Dick.

The storm grew worse around them. Help seemed far away.

"Why did you intervene?"

"I didn't want to see you become a murderer." Dick grinned when Bruce raised his hand to stop his nose from bleeding. "I didn't mean to hit you," Dick said, none too apologetically. "Actually I did. I foresaw the gunshot and took my revenge ahead of time. I'm a time traveler."

"If so you should have worn a bulletproof vest."

Dick snorted, but that got painful, so he clutched his wound tighter and groaned. He wouldn't die, couldn't- couldn't leave this young Bruce with the horrid knowledge that he killed an innocent man for the rest of his life. That wasn't why he followed the Time Trapper back to this time. He must pull through, at least until Alfred-

Bruce's worried face was the last thing he saw before everything faded to black.


	2. Of Confused Detectives and Guilty Innocents

Dick woke to a familiar face.

Then again, everything in this world was vaguely familiar. It just carried enough a dose of unfamiliar to make things foreign. Bruce, for example, was two feet too short, yet he still had that piercing glare that could put lie detectors to shame.

He blinked at the ceiling. The molding was chipped the same way his bedroom's was.

"Ow!"

He jerked by instinct. The sharp pain came from his abdomen.

"Sir, I would suggest that you refrain from moving while I am still stitching up your wound."

Dick winced. Easier said than done.

"Don't you have anesthetics, Alfred?"

Alfred looked up. It was bizarre, seeing dark hair on his scalp, and so few wrinkles lining his face. "I couldn't risk injecting it on the off chance that you may have an allergic reaction. You were unconscious for the most part of this procedure."

"I'm awake now." Dick eyed the needle warily. The butler snapped the thread cleanly off with a pair of scissors. He patched the area with thick bandages.

"That is great timing. Would you like a painkiller?"

Dick reached out, gently tracing the patched wound. Alfred's medical prowess was not to be underestimated. "It's okay. I'll live."

Alfred started packing his tools. He pulled off his gloves, revealing hands unmarked by old age. Dick couldn't stop himself from staring. "I hear that you know of me, yet I am quite sure we haven't been properly introduced."

"Uh, no, we haven't. I'm Richard-" Dick faltered, reluctant to reveal his last name. "You can call me Dick."

"Alfred Pennyworth, at your service." Alfred shook his hand firmly. "As I believe you already know, Master Dick."

"How's Bruce?"

Alfred sighed. "Guilt-ridden, and quite anxious. He has seen the worst happen to gunshot victims."

"How did he even get a hold of a gun?"

"The pistol belongs to his father. A gift from his grandfather, secured in Master Thomas's safe. Unfortunately, in this case, Master Bruce is extraordinarily gifted at safe-cracking."

Dick could just imagine it. A mini-Bruce crawling up a curtain to reach his father's safe, scribbling all possible combinations onto a patch of wallpaper. Then sneaking out under Alfred's nose like a ninja from the League of Assassins. "Why am I not surprised?"

Alfred cocked an eyebrow. "I have prepared dinner. Perhaps you would like to join Master Bruce in the dining room?"

"Perhaps. I mean, I can walk." Dick grimaced. "Is seeing Bruce the prerequisite for me to have free food?"

"The owner of the manor should thank you for your bravery." Alfred smiled. "And yes, it is a prerequisite, Sir. Please follow me."

* * *

If he died choking on an eye fillet, would young Bruce deliver his body back to old Bruce before it's rotten? What would Bruce write on his gravestone? Such were Dick's thoughts as he hammered his chest in an effort to dislodge the food blocking his airway.

Not far away, Bruce came into view. He clung to Alfred.

"How is he?" Bruce whispered. It wasn't low enough to escape trained ears, but Dick pretended not to have heard.

"I have taken the bullet out and bandaged the wound. He has a remarkable recovery rate and a surprisingly healthy appetite for a gunshot victim."

Dick wondered if he was wearing a sign that said 'over-dramatic'. Whether that was why the pair stood far away, watching, seemingly entertained.

"And the coughing?"

"Resultant from hunger and carelessness." Alfred replied dryly. "That he will likelier survive compared to the bullet through his abdomen."

"He's hiding something."

"As are all adults, Master Bruce. But bad people do not take bullets for strangers."

Bruce nodded, unclenching his fists. He sat down opposite Dick as Alfred went about his other chores.

"Hey there." Dick managed to grin, after surviving the piece of steak. "You hungry?"

"I'm good." Bruce folded his hands and stared. Dick remembered finding that stare unnerving- Batman was a better mind reader than the Martian Manhunter. Then he remembered that Bruce was eight.

"Really? Alfred's cooking is the best." Dick forked another piece and hummed in appreciation. "Best stuff I've eaten in a month, discounting Jason's cooking. My brother, of a sort. Cooks surprisingly well for a kid who spent most of his life in Gotham alleyways. I can never enter a kitchen without pots and pans exploding behind me. Hence I stick to cereal."

Bruce sat watching him, wringing his hands. When was the last time Bruce wrung his hands? The realization that Bruce wasn't as unreadable when he was younger was unreal. "I thank you for intervening. And I apologize for shooting you."

Bruce must have sounded quite remorseful, for Dick couldn't counter that apology with his usual carefree voice. He took a moment to digest that he got both a 'thank you' and a 'sorry' from Bruce Wayne. So rare a moment. Then he waved his fork about. "It's no big, really. I've had worse."

"I'm ready to be taken in."

This time Dick stopped chewing. "What," he said flatly, his mouth still full.

"You can tell the detective that the pistol was my father's. It's in his study, top left drawer."

"Bruce," Dick swallowed, wiped his mouth, and frowned. "I'm not going to arrest you."

"I didn't think so." Bruce looked up. "So I called the cops myself."

Flabbergasted was the right word. In slow motion, Dick placed his fork on the table and shook his head. "You did not."

He was not amused when sirens rang louder and louder. "You did. Damn it, Bruce, what the hell?"

* * *

Dick opened the door to a very young Detective Gordon. Thankfully, the man looked more confused than suspicious. It should be easy enough to direct him back to his car.

"We got a call on a shooting that occurred at-" Jim peeked at his notes. "-ten twenty eight this evening. A Bruce Wayne called-" He gave Dick a once-over. "-who I assume you are not?"

"Well, Detective, good evening to you, too." Dick began, hoping to get this over with before Alfred heard the commotion. He managed to open the door before Jim rang the doorbell. "There's just been a teeny tiny misunderstanding going on-"

"I shot him." Out came Bruce from nowhere. Dick wanted to smack his face against a brick wall. "He wasn't my initial target. I went out looking for-"

"Alcohol. He's talking funny. We've been drinking-"

Jim cocked an eyebrow. "You've been drinking with a minor?"

"Well, yes. No. I was drinking. He was just sitting there, chilling." Dick could feel redness creeping up his neck. He was a shit liar. "We were playing a game, it involved a bit of role-playing. The kid was getting all worked up-"

"I went to Park Row with my father's pistol." Bruce intercepted, ignoring Dick's frantic shushing.

Jim's eyes narrowed. Clearly he remembered the shooting that occurred at Park Row. That place his colleagues took to calling Crime Alley. Bruce Wayne's name was just too tightly associated with the case.

"Okay, I brought the kid to a theater near Park Row, but he had a bit of a nervous breakdown, so I panicked-"

"You brought this kid to Park Row?"

"I didn't know-"

Jim faced away from Bruce and hissed, "You didn't know about the deaths of the Waynes?"

"Look, I don't spend my hours reading the goddamn Gotham Gazette-"

"Do not take that tone with me, son. Don't." Jim snapped. Dick couldn't help raising an eyebrow. This was the youngest he'd ever seen Jim Gordon, and the man was still calling him 'son'.

"I shot at Joe Chill." Bruce interrupted, and Dick had half a mind to punch him in the face. "I had traps in place. I cornered him and knocked him out. He-" He pointed at Dick. "-swiped in and took the bullet. It entered through his abdomen."

Jim looked even more surprised, as if he was fully suspecting Dick to be the shooter. If Bruce wasn't about to be convicted of attempted murder, Dick was going to blurt out, "Ha! So you thought." Apparently the discussion was grimmer than that and he was the only one with a sense of humor.

Jim glanced down at Dick's hastily buttoned shirt. It didn't hide the ring of bandages around his waist. "Was that what happened?" His hand inched towards his handcuffs.

"I plead guilty." Bruce stated, presenting both wrists.

That marked the bounds of Dick's patience. He heaved a loud sigh and turned to Bruce. "You, shut up."

He turned back to Jim. "That was not what happened." He insisted. "I brought the kid to Park Row, we had an argument. I was drunk, slammed myself against a garbage bin, got slashed across my stomach. It hurt like hell, it bled, and the kid was feeling really insecure and guilty, so he called the cops. Ultimately you gather that nothing happened, there was no violence, no gunshots, no attempted murder. Do me a favor and write that into your logbook."

"That's the worst cover-up I have ever heard." Jim said, but he slowly lowered his hand.

"Thank you. You're welcome to edit the details." Dick sighed in relief. Self-consciously he tugged his shirt back in so the bandages wouldn't show.

"And you," Jim turned to Bruce. "Don't you ever do that again. How did you even find a gun?"

"In a safe." Dick sighed. "Kid's a master ninja."

Jim shook his head. "Just keep them out of his reach." He walked back to his car.

"Hey," Dick waved and shouted, "Say hello to Barbara for me!"

The man paused and looked back. "Who's Barbara?"

"Uh, your wife?"

Jim frowned. "I'm not married. You're still drunk, son. Go freshen up." He slipped back into his car and drove away.

* * *

When they finally got back into the manor, Dick dropped to his knees in exasperation. "Bruce, you really need to chill so I can eat in peace."

Bruce countered, "I'm just doing what's right."

"I don't want what's right. I want food in my stomach."

Bruce shrugged.

"Here Jim Gordon looks like he's in his mid-twenties. He doesn't know who Babs's mother is. Alfred looks like he's slept in anti-aging serum for years. And B, you're a midget. You're like ten inches tall." Dick groaned. He winced when he moved and triggered his bullet wound. "My whole world is crumbling down."

Behind him, Bruce asked, "Who are you?"

"Like I said, I'm a time traveler."

Bruce snorted. "Not unless you can run faster than light."

"I can't, but a friend of mine can. And I know a bad guy who warps time and changes history for fun."

"Convincing," Bruce's expression said the opposite. "What's your name?"

"Richard. Call me Dick."

"Last name?"

"I'll tell you when it's time."

"Which is?"

"You'll see."

"How do you know my name?"

"Everyone knows your name. Richest kid in the neighborhood, remember?"

Dick paused when he felt someone clinging to his shirt. Technically, not his shirt- he wagered it was Thomas Wayne's shirt. Bruce held onto a corner and looked away.

"I presume you didn't time travel with your house. So if you need a place to stay..." Bruce offered. "This manor is too big for two anyway."

Dick stood unmoving for a moment. Then he crouched down and smiled. He even took the chance to ruffle Bruce's hair. That was new.

"Thanks, B. I appreciate it."

Again, Bruce didn't meet his eyes. Flustered- Mr Emotionless was flustered. That was new, too.

"You're welcome."


	3. Of Detective Gordon and Officer Gordon

Forging a resume ranked high on Dick Grayson's worst acts.

He skimmed his signature again. His hand had wobbled when someone knocked on his door, resulting in a funny loop after the 'k' in 'Dick'. Bruce came in, telling him breakfast was ready. He folded and hid his application in a rush, grinning like he was a naughty child caught red-handed. His signature remained stunted.

Worse, he made his date of birth twenty years early. He's practically ancient. It's criminal.

His heart thumped with the loud pop of a bubble. The cop behind the counter unwrapped another stick of gum. So vivid a shade Dick shuddered seeing it. "Name, kid?"

"It's Richard." Dick watched as the cop shoved his documents into a dusty cabinet without another glance. Shouldn't someone at least run a background check on him? The pen darted across the 'first name' column, pausing by the 'preferred name' column. "You can call me Dick." Dick added helpfully.

"Cute." The cop remarked, his voice deadpan. "Last name?"

Jim passed by with a grunt that sounded vaguely like 'good morning'. He smelled of instant coffee, cigarettes, and newspapers- telltale signs of his whereabouts for the last fifteen minutes.

"Gordon," Dick lied.

"Huh." The bubble popped. The cop yelled, "Hey Jim, we found your long-lost cousin!"

"Funny," Jim muttered, didn't bother to look back. "Don't put him in my division."

"All set, rookie." The cop handed Dick a folder. He bent down, fumbled around, and fished out a rusty badge. "You report to Gordon, Gordon."

"Thanks, pal." Dick hugged the items to his chest and smiled. Corners of his documents were still sticking out of the cop's cabinet.

The cop gave him a lazy salute. "Good day, Officer."

* * *

Jim's corner was unoccupied when Dick came around.

He flipped open the folder on Jim's desktop. On the third page was a log sheet that detailed a call received a week ago. A shooting that occurred at 10:28 p.m., called in by a Bruce Wayne. The case was closed, with a simple, red-inked 'prank call'.

Amused, he shut that, and spotted a much thicker folder underneath. Named 'Joe Chill', the front page was a mugshot stamped, in all caps, 'Missing'.

"Did the higher-ups pay you to snoop around my desk?"

Dick dropped the folder like a hot potato. Jim was right behind him.

The man extended a hand. "Jim Gordon, Detective."

"Dick... Gordon." Dick shook his hand. "Fresh grad from Gotham Uni. I majored in criminology."

"Criminology, huh?" Jim muttered, unimpressed. "Give me a minute, I'll debrief you shortly." He walked past Dick, slumped down in his chair, and started decluttering his desktop. "Also, to prepare you for the inevitable I should warn you, Gotham's nothing like your textbook description. Every Friday afternoon you'll be going after some of the country's craziest lunatics." Shaking his head, he tucked his 'Joe Chill' folder away. "Every Monday morning you'll wake up wishing you chose to be the ice cream man."

"Don't we all?" Dick smiled. "Sounds to me you're a textbook pessimist, Detective."

"I know good cops that have fled the GCPD faster than a cascading avalanche. The real world is tough and the system is corrupt." Jim sighed. "Granted, there aren't that many good cops around. Gotham has a way of chasing good folks away. Or flat out ending them."

Looking out the slit of a window Jim's corner faced, Dick remarked, "For all she does and is, I think she's beautiful."

Jim snorted. "That's refreshing." He was about to tuck away another stack when his eyes caught his log book. His eyebrows furrowed.

Dick turned back to him. "I happen to know someone who's obsessive about her. Rubbed off on me-"

"Wait." Jim stood up, his eyes narrowing. "I know you."

Dick backed away reflexively. "You do?"

"You're-" Without warning, Jim flipped the pen in his hand and poked Dick in the stomach with the blunt end.

"Ow!"

"Aren't you the kid who got shot by Wayne?"

Dick sighed, still guarding his freshly healed wound. "You mean the-"

"- shit cover-up." Jim supplied.

"- prank call?" Dick finished.

Jim cocked an eyebrow. "Read everything on my desktop, did you?"

"Well," Dick drawled. "Not everything. For starters, what cases are you usually on?"

"On a good day? Robbers, kidnappers, rapists, rich kids with too much time on their hands in a house with bad gun control."

"Wow," Dick gulped. He had almost forgotten how peaceful Bludhaven was compared to her sibling. "I'm not sure I want to know who you deal with on bad days."

"Murderers," Jim said firmly. "And superhero wannabes."

Dick spluttered. "Superheroes? In Gotham?"

"My emphasis is on 'wannabes'."

"What's fascinating is that you lump superheroes with murderers."

"Wannabes, Officer. Because they set me up for the same degree of headache, and that's one hell of a headache." Jim took off his glasses and started massaging his temples. "Costumed loons in cheap spandex going after gun-wielding psychos with Walmart tasers."

If Dick hadn't just thrown his Nightwing gear into his washing machine, he would have felt a little sorry for Jim.

"They've gotten better at getting away, too," Jim recalled. "Just last night my partner spotted a fancy blue peacock enacting a nunchaku demonstration on top of the state library."

He didn't hear Dick fake a cough to mumble, "Escrima sticks, Sir."

Continuing, he said, "Good thing is, in Gotham there's a law called 'obstruction of justice', and these goons fit right in." He looked up. "I'm set to arrest every last one of them and so should you be."

"That's very inspiring, Detective." Dick smiled tightly. He dragged his hand across his badge. "Very inspiring."

* * *

Dick had just gotten home.

It was a tiny, rented apartment in the heart of Gotham, complete with a leaking ceiling and a rotting carpet. He ripped the plastic off a microwaveable pizza, the only item he secured from late night supermarket sales. The doorbell rang.

"Coming, just a sec." Judging from the puddle accumulating at the corner of his living room, it was pouring out there. He wondered if he had forgotten to prepay a bill.

Bruce was the last person he expected at his doorstep. Yet there he stood.

"B!" Dick didn't hide his astonishment. He wiped his hands on his apron, leaving bright red hand prints on the fabric. "How did you find this place?"

"GPS." Bruce was holding an umbrella, but evidently the storm was stronger than he could handle. His jacket was wet with dark patches.

Suspiciously Dick pressed around his abdomen. "Alfred didn't implant a GPS tracker under my skin, did he?" For all the odd, borderline terrifying things Batman had done to him before, Dick wouldn't put that past Bruce.

"It was your suit, after Alfred offered to wash it." Bruce explained. At that, Dick heaved a sigh of relief. "Is it a custom of time travellers to interrogate their guests at the entrance doorway?"

"Yes, it's called 'customs clearance'. Come on in." Dick poked his head out, scanning the perimeters for an expensive car. "Where's Alfred?"

"Busy handling legal matters to do with my inheritance. He's teleconferencing with Lucius."

"Did you sneak out again?"

Bruce shrugged. "I left a note."

"Right," Dick turned away, unconvinced. He pulled out his new phone, and keyed in Alfred's number as he remembered it. He texted Bruce's whereabouts as the boy turned a sharp eye across his furniture. He settled on the couch. Dick asked, "So, what brings you here, big company CEO?"

"To make a proposal." Bruce fished an escrima stick out of a flower pot and frowned. "I've seen some CCTV records. You have an extraordinary set of skills."

"Uh," Dick supposed that was true. "Thanks. I learned from the best." He went back into the kitchen and popped his pizza into the microwave.

"I want you to teach me."

Dick's hand froze over the timer. "Come again?"

"For your skills, I'll trade you anything you ask for."

Dick walked out. Bruce looked dead serious. Planting his hands on his hips, Dick said, "You want to learn martial arts, there's a training center open twenty-four seven. It's two blocks from here."

"It's beyond combat training." Bruce said matter-of-factly. "You intercept and decrypt police radio, you beat cops to their destinations at every turn. You ambush criminals, trap them, corner them, overpower them, without needing to kill or maim. That's learned and practised." He paused, crossing his arms confidently. "Besides, you'd do with someone watching your back, big blue."

"First off," Dick tapped his foot impatiently. "My superhero name is Nightwing. I'm no peacock, and not big blue- that's taken, by the way- I'm Nightwing, the one and only. And if you've never read up on Kryptonian mythology, you're missing out."

Before Bruce could interrupt, Dick carried on. "Second, what happened to you, Mr 'I don't want anyone to follow my path'? Don't you like 'working alone'? So much so that when shit happens you 'fire' your partners?" He dropped the air quotes in frustration. Bruce, to his credit, did not let confusion show on his face. Dick sighed. "Bottom line is, short stack, you're not going to pass for a meat shield. In fact, you being out there will probably get me killed."

Bruce pulled a blank check out of his pocket. "My own net worth is ten billion. Wayne Enterprises makes triple that a year. With this check you can retire tomorrow."

"Charming, but even that can't buy me a time machine." Dick picked up the check and fanned himself with it. "Besides, I'm a billionaire heir. I'm not attracted to money."

"You work overtime." Bruce pointed out. "As a cop, apparently."

"Look, I work overtime so my boss can leave an hour early to maybe meet the mother of one of my closest friends. It's complicated. That aside," Dick's eyes narrowed. "Have you been stalking me?"

"It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to spot your uniform in the laundry basket. Or the plastic wrapping with a late night discount sticker in the bin." Bruce said. "I survey."

"Creep." Dick tore the check in half. As smoke filled the kitchen, he walked back in. "Let me get this straight. You want to be a superhero."

"A vigilante."

Dick rolled his eyes. "A freak donning a mask, cape, and tights."

"A man who is capable of operating outside the law, to bring justice to where the system fails to deliver." Bruce countered smoothly. "Your self-depreciation is unnecessary, Dick."

Dick blinked slowly, his mind boggled by the odd sound of his own name rolling off Bruce's tongue. Instead he asked, "You want pizza?"

Bruce nodded. He moved to the small dining table. "Are you here to stay?"

"Gotham?" Dick unwrapped a stack of paper plates. "It probably pains you to acknowledge this, but I'm actually a hardcore fan of Bludhaven."

"I mean this point of the timeline." Bruce clarified. "If you are what you say you are."

"I thought you don't believe in time travel."

"The theory of relativity is sound. I just don't think it's achievable-"

"- unless we find someone who runs faster than light?" Dick interrupted knowingly. "Or some super villain who has somehow acquired the power of chronokinesis?"

Bruce seemed dubious. He pulled a piece onto his plate. "If either exists."

"My best friend Wally takes off at Mach ten. In three hours he can circle the planet."

"Impressive." Bruce remarked. "But I gather he isn't the one who brought you back."

"No one brought me back per se. I followed someone back." Dick lowered his voice. "A bad guy who calls himself the Time Trapper."

That sparked Bruce's interest. "What did he do?"

"He altered history." Dick said vaguely. "Did something that fundamentally changes the life of someone I care deeply about."

"Did you stop him?"

Dick leaned back in his chair. He spent a good few seconds studying Bruce, imagining the same face- older, worn, and weary- behind bars in Arkham. "Guess I did."

"But now, you can't find your way back." Bruce concluded.

"Not until I find that time manipulating bastard." Dick agreed.

Bruce fell silent. He shut his eyes, folded his hands, then after a full second, he said, "Deal."

Confused, Dick prompted, "On what?"

"Your priority is to get back to your time," Bruce said. "To do that you need to locate the Time Trapper."

"Right," Dick nodded hesitantly.

"I can help."

"Really?" Even his tone was doubtful. "How?"

"Resources you don't have- money, technology, connections, information." Bruce offered. "I may not be running my company, but I own and have access to every machine branded WayneTech. Or would you rather build your own satellite?"

It took Dick a moment to agree that Bruce had a point. Here he didn't have the Batcomputer, or the powerful machines at the Watchtower or Mount Justice. Here he was just Dick Grayson, stranded with a stretchy suit and a pair of escrima sticks in a plastic flower pot. He still desperately needed to get back.

"What do you say?"

"That sounds reasonable and all-"

"Good. The bargain goes both ways, of course." Bruce said unblinkingly. "Let me be your partner."


End file.
